


Storm Warning

by goldfishtobleroneandamitie



Series: In which squinterns get girlfriends (and become people in the process) [2]
Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:40:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishtobleroneandamitie/pseuds/goldfishtobleroneandamitie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wendell Bray worked for this job, and he doesn't need a privileged little wannabe entomologist with a Congressman father to mess this up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm Warning

**Author's Note:**

> "I'm gonna wish I had a storm warning  
> I'm gonna wish I had a sign  
> I'm gonna wish I had a little heads-up,  
> Little leeway, little more time;  
> Some kind of radar system, locked in on love-  
> I got a feeling by the time the night finds the morning  
> I'm gonna wish I had a storm warning."
> 
> -Hunter Hayes, "Storm Warning"

Wendell Bray was having a bad day.

Not the normal kind, either. His alarm hadn't gone off this morning, his train into downtown had been sidetracked for repairs, his key card hadn't worked at the outside doors of the Jeffersonian, and to top it all off, it was raining.

He hated rain. Especially the cold, miserable, Washington D.C. kind, the kind when it wasn't quite cold enough for snow but gave the impression that the sky was miserable and wanted you to be too. Luckily, the security guards at the door had recognized him, but he had still had to be frisked and reprimanded for letting his card expire. He'd have to get it renewed that afternoon, which meant missing his early train and dealing with commuter traffic as people tried to get out of D.C. for the holiday weekend.

At least it was Friday.

He'd left his outside clothes in the employee locker room and was just shrugging into his lab coat as he practically sprinted down the hall, looking at his watch. He  _was_  late, but not terribly so, and he dared to hope that the day was looking up.

_THUNK._

His chin exploded in pain, followed closely by a burning sensation in his chest, and he stumbled backward, barely holding in a string of expletives unbecoming Dr. Brennan's grad student.

"Oh, my God! I'm so sorry! Are you all right? Oh, no…your coat!"

He felt hands on his chest, and he blindly shoved them away.

"I really am sorry, I didn't look where I was going…this is terrible."

He opened his eyes when the batting at his chest wouldn't go away, and, pushing at her again, surveyed the damage around him.

There was an insulated travel mug on the floor, and coffee was everywhere. The burning sensation on his chest appeared to be more coffee, which had stained his lab coat, his pants, and was now rapidly turning into a cold, sticky mess over the burn he could feel on his chest.

The annoying voice that had been speaking appeared to be attached to the intrusive hands, which were themselves attached to a pretty girl about his own age. Her hair was dark brown, punctuated with a bright blue streak along the left side. Her skin was pale, and light brown eyes were frantically trying to catch his gaze.

He was suddenly furious.

"It's fine. Forget it," he said coldly, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of the dry-cleaning bill. It appeared that he'd be eating Ramen for the next few days.

"No, honestly. Please, send me your bill. This is all my fault!" She looked distressed and barely mindful of her own lab coat, which itself had escaped mostly unscathed save for a few spots on the lapel.

"Forget it," he repeated, looking at his watch again. Ten minutes late. Dr. Saroyan was going to kill him. "I have to go."

He strode off, leaving the girl in the splattered coffee.

* * *

His tweezers slipped for the fourth time, and he sighed explosively.

"Whoa, tiger. Who salted your cornflakes this morning?"

He looked up from a particularly slippery bit of scapula. "Hey, Angela."

"Hey. Did we fall in a mud puddle this morning?" she asked, gesturing to his shirt.

He replied wryly, "No. I ran into a girl with a cappuccino. Did you need the skull?"

"I did, actually. Cam wants the facial reconstruction done yesterday."

He gestured to the table. "Just bring it back when you're done. And can you call Hodgins in here? I want him to swab the injury site for particulates."

"Sure. He's getting his new grad student acquainted with the lab, but he should be in here soon," she replied.

He frowned. "When did Hodgins get a grad student?"

"The Board of Directors roped him into it. Ever since he published that paper on  _Drosphila melanogaster_ , he's shot to the top of the 'bug-and-slime' world," she laughed. "He got more than three hundred applicants through Georgetown, George Washington, and the AEI. I know," Angela finished wryly, "Because he would bounce them off me. Constantly."

Wincing, he queried, "Who'd he pick?"

"That's the funny thing," she replied. "He picked blind, but he ended up picking the daughter of an old family friend. Zoe Livingston."

"Who?" He repeated vaguely, once again re-absorbed in the scapula.

"Livingston? As in Robert Livingston, Congressman? Descended from Philip Livingston?"

He looked up and raised his eyebrows.

Blowing out a breath, she continued, "Signed the Declaration of Independence, Wendell. I hated history, and even I know that."

"That's probably because you rub elbows with high society now, Mrs. Hodgins."

She sniffed. "Whatever. Anyway, her dad donates to the American Entomological Institute every year on her birthday."

"I didn't think Hodgins would be one for favorites," he said softly, coldly.  _I fought for this job. My whole neighborhood did. And this trust-fund baby gets to waltz right in and muck around in here with barely an_ interview?

"Ange! Wendell! Dr.—" Hodgins bounded up the steps, then halted. "Where's Dr. Brennan?"

"She went with Booth to a possible crime scene," Wendell tossed off, still seething.

"I'll have to tell her later, then. In the meantime, everyone, this is Zoe Livingston, my new graduate student."

Wendell looked up, barely keeping a look of contempt off his face.  _Trust-fund—_

"Hi," said Girl-With-A-Cappuccino. "I'm Zoe."

* * *

He could only stand and gape, hardly noticing that his lack of response had allowed the silence to become awkward.

"I really am sorry about your coat," she continued awkwardly, abruptly rubbing her hands down her (mostly pristine, he thought slightly sulkily) lab coat. "I'd be happy to pay for it."

" _Livingston, as in Robert Livingston, Congressman?...her dad donates to the AEI every year on her birthday."_

"I'll send you the bill," he heard coming out of his mouth.

He abruptly felt resentful of the look of relief on her face.  _Yeah, 'cause she can throw around that kind of money,_ he thought savagely. Part of him—the fair, rational part—was aghast at his general antipathy towards this girl; a much larger part, however, the part that had been raised in an inner-city neighborhood, the part that had had to beg and plead and scratch and claw for a place in this lab of expensive equipment, glass, and steel, the part that sometimes had to choose between dinner and the laundromat, was just as set in that antipathy.

He abruptly realized that she had been speaking. "Sorry?"

Looking at him oddly, she repeated, "Nice to meet you, Mr…"

"Bray. Wendell Bray." He stuck out his hand.

As she took it, he mentally catalogued her soft, smooth skin—soft from the best lotion money could buy, he was sure—punctuated only by calluses on the very tips of her fingers, from playing an instrument, he guessed, or handling microscopes and scalpels. He was suddenly hyperaware of his own rough hands, with the permanent stain of motor oil and roughness from the odd jobs he'd been forced to work since he could turn a wrench. Her hands had probably never changed her oil or jump-started a battery, let alone hefted Mack truck engines or dragged steel pipe. Another mark against her. It was completely irrational, he knew, but righteous—of that he was also sure. She had never known hardship and had _not_  worked as hard as he for her place.

She nodded awkwardly, and as Hodgins led her away, accompanied by a chattering Angela, he told himself that her amber eyes didn't have a little bit of hurt in them at his cold welcome. Why would she care what he—an utter plebeian—thought?

He turned back to his skeleton. The skull he'd meant to give to Angela grinned at him as he leaned over the rib bones again.

"Trust-fund baby," he muttered, tweezing up another bone shard for cataloguing.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! It's me again.
> 
> This story is unabashed romance, though nothing too heavy. It does have some tie-in with "Accordance", as the characters will know each other, but one does not have to read either story to understand the other. It will not deal with the more awkward themes of religion, as "Accordance" does. No, this story's main obstacle is Wendell being a butt. But he's still my second-favorite squintern, and a super-cool character to write.
> 
> Anyway, I can't promise that this story will be updated a whole lot, but I can promise that I won't abandon it. I am currently looking for a beta, however, so if you want to volunteer, that'd be great! (It goes without saying that this chapter is unbeta'd, and any and all constructive feedback is welcome).
> 
> Thank you for reading "Storm Warning", and I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> -stargirl


End file.
